You Will Remember
by My-Alphabet-Soup
Summary: It's the star after her name that tips you over the edge. You throw your mug against the wall and watch the intricate network of cracks appear in the ceramic, as if in slow motion, causing the inevitable shattering. Warning: char death. No W/R romance. :


_Mr Schue_

_They told me that I probably won't make it to the end of this week. _

_I know that that's probably the bluntest and most confronting start to a letter that you'll have read in a long time…or possibly ever. Anyway. I didn't know who else to address it to, because I've just realised how alone I actually am. Did you know that you were the only person to visit me while I was in the hospital? I know I was unconscious for it and you weren't allowed in anyway, but the nurses told me that you came. That was nice of you. I mean I know that I had some friends, I guess, and that they couldn't see me because I'm a "Critical – No visitors" patient, but it would have been nice to have received…a card…or something._

_But that doesn't matter. What matters is now. So I'm writing you this letter._

_I don't really know what to write, but the nurses said that if I wanted, I could sort out some last minute things. They're making it sound like I'm going on holiday and I have to remind people to feed my cat. _

_I suppose the first thing I'll say is; thankyou. Thankyou for being the only person in my life who actually seemed to give a damn. I don't have a family, since my fathers passed away, and, apparently, I don't have friends, but I guess I always thought of you as a friend, because you listened to me when I was upset and you told me little casual things when I was leaving Glee or passed you in the hallway. (Having re-read that sentence, that sounds creepy, but it's not supposed to). It felt like having a real friend, someone who I could talk to when things really went to shit, or just talk to when I had something to talk about. You are one of the reasons that I continued going to school, and my one regret about dying is that I never got to thank you in person._

_This letter probably sounds less eloquent than my usual rants, which I pad out through the use of my rather extensive vocabulary, but I really don't feel up to it right now. I mean I can barely even write this. They had to deliver a laptop to my room and it's so far taken me an hour just to write this much. But it's something to do._

_I suppose I should finish this now, but I do have one favour to ask of you; please tell the Glee kids that I am sorry for any intrusion my existence had on their lives. I know most of them hate me, so I didn't expect much from them, but I thought a few of the others tolerated me; how foolish of me to think that I might matter to someone. Tell them that I believe in them and that they are a talented group, though I could have shown it better and appreciated it more. Perhaps this is why they hate me; because I could not acknowledge their triumphs._

_Thankyou Mr Schue, for everything._

_Rachel *_

It's the star after her name that tips you over the edge. You throw your mug against the wall and watch the intricate network of cracks appear in the ceramic, as if in slow motion, causing the inevitable shattering. The jagged pieces of the mug lie innocuously on the floor, a metaphor for Rachel's broken heart and broken trust…because metaphors are important. Rachel trusted the Glee club, or rather…_some_ of them - as the letter had suggested - to accept who she was and, if not like her for it, at least tolerate it. They had unwittingly broken that trust when they assumed that she would not want to hear form them, since the last words she had shared with them were filled with anger and hurt. She had yelled at them after she had discovered that a rumour floating around about a sexual liaison with one Jacob Ben Israel had not, in fact, been started by the young stalker in question, but by the Glee Club itself. Once Rachel had left the room, they explained to you that the reason they had started it was that the young starlet had over-stepped her boundaries after she told the three newest recruits that they were not welcome, causing them to promptly resign from the club (though all three were amazing singers). You had then told New Directions just how disappointed you were and left without another word.

The club is not, as of yet, aware that Rachel had passed away in the early hours of the morning. You have no idea how you are going to tell them. The half crumpled letter clutched in your fist was given to you when you went to the hospital just that morning to get your bi-weekly report on the girl. You knew what it meant, but you didn't want to acknowledge it. In fact you didn't even think the words 'Rachel is dead' until you were sitting there, actually reading the words.

Letting out a shuddering breath that you didn't realise you were holding, you bring your head to rest in your hands, where you feel tears that you didn't know were falling. How could one moment affect so many lives? One tiny, little, seemingly insignificant moment. The moment you refer to, of course, is the moment in which the drunk driver decided to get into his car that night. Had he decided to walk, or get a cab, Rachel would still be alive. Her fathers would still be alive.

You lift your head back up and look down at the broken mug on the floor. You feel a sudden urge to clean it up. Oh God. Oh God, you need to clean that immediately. You need to pick up every little piece and put it all back together again. Because it can be fixed. Everything can be fixed. You just need to…you need to… And suddenly you are crying. Not just crying; you are sobbing. Broken. Angst-ridden. Alone. Just like she was. But…but…no, you can't say that. You don't have a right to say that, because you have no idea what she was feeling. You cannot say with one hundred percent conviction that you know what it's like to know – or at least believe – that not one person in the whole, entire world loves you…hell, even _likes_ you.

As your tears dry and your breathing returns to normal, you shakily stand up. You move into your bathroom and you splash your face with water before you squint into the mirror. Staring back at you is the blotchy red face of a distraught man. You do not know him. Even when you found out that your wife was lying to you, you did not feel this way. This is not necessarily a worse feeling, just a different one. Because you cannot understand – cannot _fathom_ – that because of one stupid decision, three whole people have been wiped off the face of the earth. Three people. Gone. Forever. And it sounds so definitive that you just want to scream.

You think to yourself that perhaps you wouldn't be having such a violent reaction if you weren't feeling so guilty. Guilty about the times when you didn't listen to her, or you sided with the others, even when you tried to justify it, hell, even times when you _could_ justify it. You shouldn't feel guilty about those times, but you do, dammit, you _do_. Because what else _do_ you do?

And you realise that you can't think of an answer.

You are lost in a void of guilt and remorse and grief. You cannot escape it. Part of you doesn't want to.

Reading that letter made you realise just how close you had grown to the slight girl. Because you _did _try harder to be nice to her and make her feel included. You _did_ tell her casual things that made her smile, like jokes and other little anecdotes that had nothing to do with school, or Glee; she seemed to appreciate that, and obviously she did, since she brought it up in the last form of communication she would ever have with anyone. Knowing that you made this effort makes the guilt recede just a little. You can breathe a little easier in this knowledge.

You wonder what the world will be like without Rachel Berry in it, and you fear the answer. Though she was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most unpopular person in school, she pushed people to be better, and while some may see this as a drawback, you see it as a girl who just wants to encourage others. This may only apply to Glee and yourself, but you feel that her absence will create social shockwaves throughout the student's hierarchy. Then again, perhaps you're just making her out to be a bigger deal than she actually was when it comes to the student-body. You don't know whether or not this is a good thing. Would she prefer to be remembered as an unpopular, insignificant student, which (you hate to admit), is probably closer to the mark, or as a girl who pushed others to be better, and, in turn, caused those people to encourage others (this may be stretching it to the point of ridiculousness)? Neither, you think, is appropriate.

So you will remember her as Rachel Berry; your very own Golden Star.

**A/N So normally I put an author's note at the beginning of my stories, but that is how quickly this plot bunny hopped up to me and whacked me over the head repeatedly until I got the whole story out. It was quite painful. Anyway, it is currently half past midnight and I have not re-read this story to check for mistakes or other errors, so if you see any mistakes, glaring or otherwise, please feel free to let me know and I will correct them as soon as possible.**

**Just so we all know, I love Glee and I absolutely adore Rachster friendships, and while I am aware that this isn't exactly a friendship fic, I enjoyed writing it (but not in a sadistic kind of way...). **

**So feel free to review, if that option should take your fancy. If not, then get the HELL off my story! ...nah, I'm just kidding. Thanks for reading! :D**

**-Alphabet**


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